


Reanimation

by Cthulhuoflongisland



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Extremely vague descriptions of sex that are still present enough to warrant an M rating, Junkenstein AU, M/M, True Love and all that junk, mentions of gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 19:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16878216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cthulhuoflongisland/pseuds/Cthulhuoflongisland
Summary: He closes his eyes, and finally, he is alive.





	Reanimation

He spent so many nights here, alone, with only stone walls to lean against and dead scraps of metal to stare back at him. He hid like an animal, hunched and muttering,from the cold sneer of the Lord and the high,cruel laughter of his subjects, head hung over his desk to absorb blueprints instead of ridicule. Silent except for his own muttering and still except for his own touch and so, so desperate for _something (someone)_ that angry tears washed the ink of his plans to puddles on the floor.

And when his creation lay still and lifeless, he touched his forehead to the rotting chest and wept again, this time with loud, wild cries and the fresh hurt of failure. His revenge foiled and no sign of life but his own starving heartbeat in his ears.

But now his creature, light of his life, blood-hungry terror, the sublime abomination made from his own two twitching palms, looks down at him with black eyes and he can do nothing but lay his cheek to that wide chest and feel the chill of his skin. His dead lungs strangle his breath, and Junkenstein would spend a thousand more nights in agony to hear that sound. He would die, though, for the fingers that tangle into his hair and trail down his neck, and for the snort of his beast’s breath above him, icy and rancid and alive.

 

                                            He’s perfect.

 

                                             He’s _his._

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Junkenstein stitches his monster’s wounds and scrubs the blood from underneath his fingernails on the nights he staggers back through the door, cooing and chastising all at once. He can never admonish too long. Those eyes bear down on him, black and deep and burrowing, and every harsh word dies on his tongue. His hands linger too long on the punctured skin, but the beast never complains. He lays his own hands on the doctor’s back and thighs and chest when they lay in his worn bed, too big for one man and hardly big enough for his lovely creation, but it is enough.

It is not something he’d ever imagined, before all this. The warmth and the easy nights. The feeling in his chest like a hole closing as he’s pulled tight to his creation’s body, breathing in the chemical scent of his skin. The Doctor presses his face to his monster’s neck as if he might fall back apart into undone threads and gore if he’s not held tight enough, chest taut with affection and lips catching against each stitch. The beauty of every part of him is overwhelming, and Junkenstein revels in it each time as if it’s the last time.

He closes his eyes each night and is home, finally, in a tangle of dead limbs. He cannot go back to emptiness, cannot go back to the sharp pain of the decades before. The second the first cry passed his lover’s lips, hoarse and enraged and terrified all at once, they were already entwined. The only thing that will ever separate them now is the blood in his veins going cold, and Junkenstein knows it will be him first-He won’t allow it any other way. There is no life for either of them outside of each other’s embrace.

He puts that out of his mind, though, on nights like this. When there is only softness and warmth, and in the dark his sweet creature feels each part of him with a tenderness no human being will ever show him again. He has something worth clinging to now, and by God, he isn’t letting it go. He has found immortality, and it is here, now, crushed to a sagging mattress, choking on desperate declarations of love with his fingers squeezed between the spaces of dead ones.

He closes his eyes, and finally ( _finally_ ), he is alive, electricity jolting through his skin and reaching places that had nearly rotted away from disuse. Reanimated, he breathes in sweat and formaldehyde, and there is nothing more he can do but lay there in his monster’s arms.

There is no other place for him, he knows, than here.

**Author's Note:**

> This took me almost TWO YEARS to finish but it's here now so I've finally delivered on my promise for more of these two. Hope u enjoyed this mess as much as I do


End file.
